


No Rest for the Wicked

by hopefulundertone



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2314802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulundertone/pseuds/hopefulundertone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has a bad day, but cuddles make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest for the Wicked

To describe Crowley's day in one word: bad.

He scrunched up his nose and glared at the rain with an extremely disgruntled look. Crowley hated rain. Well, generally, he loved it, depressing, soul-sucking weather it was, but currently he was trying to cross from one end of London to the other, and the rain was definitely not helping. Why Aziraphale's bookshop had to be so inaccessible, he didn't know, but it was certainly rather irritating, on top of everything else that had happened. First he had tried to encourage a couple of teenagers to go and vandalise the nearby buildings, which had resulted in him having to hide in a damp alley to avoid them, and then he'd tried to seduce a woman in a park into adultery (purely for evil's purpose, he wasn't that sort) only to run into her rather muscular husband's fist, and all that to meet his quota. He was classier than this, someone damn it!

And now, icy rain was stinging the nape of his neck, and soaking his fabulous (if he dared say so himself) hair, and Aziraphale's bloody bookshop was at the edge of London. Someone damn it, the day was just getting worse and worse.

When he actually reached the bookshop, he groaned at the "Closed" sign on the door, and looked up at the sky. The downpour wasn't letting up one bit, so he decided to enter anyway. It wasn't like Aziraphale was going to do anything in retaliation. Laying his slim hand onto the knob, he felt the lock click, and immediately entered, shaking off the water and soaking in the warmth of the bookshop. Leaving his coat draped carefully on a rack to one side, he quickly located the stairs and ascended, fully intending to take temporary possession of the bed Aziraphale had for some reason bought. The angel didn't even sleep.

Until now, apparently. Pushing open the door of the bedroom, he immediately noticed the angelic being, wrapped in his own rather fluffy, if rumpled wings and curled up on the bed. Briefly, Crowley considered this new factor and whether it would keep him from occupying Aziraphale's bed, before making quick work of everything but his boxers, snagging a towel from a drawer in the cupboard and drying himself.

Without preamble, he clambered into the remaining space on the bed, and after another moment in the rather chilly temperature of the bed, pulling the warm angel towards him. There was a rather undignified squeak of surprise, which Crowley ignored. "It's me."

"Oh. Mph. Your feet are cold."

"It’s pouring outside. Since when did you start sleeping?"

"Hmmph. Recently. It's relaxing."

Crowley could see Aziraphale waking up more fully, and nuzzled into the patch of skin between his neck and shoulder, humming into it to see what reaction it produced. In this case apparently, a slight shiver, and an answering press of lips to his own. He could feel his black mood lightening, even more so when Aziraphale turned over so that they were face to face and draped an arm across him, wing settling gently across the demon. "You alright?" His voice was clogged with sleep, and muffled by the fact that he was burying his face in Crowley's chest, an arrangement the demon didn't mind at all. Despite being fresh from slumber, the angel could still sense that Crowley was having a terrible day. It impressed him, and maybe, not that Crowley would ever admit it, made him feel better.

"I am now."

****  
  



End file.
